


Think I Know Where You Belong

by spacesbetweenseconds



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, M/M, Pining, Seriously Harry is 20 but Spinach Pie also happens? And George is on X Factor but also Nick has Pig?, Timeline What Timeline, just go with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacesbetweenseconds/pseuds/spacesbetweenseconds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Some facts:</i><br/>1. Harry’s now been working on the Breakfast team for a little less than two years.<br/>2. He’s been halfway in love with Nick since he was fourteen and Nick was still co-hosting with Annie Mac and Harry was realizing that he definitely maybe liked guys in addition to his past girlfriends.<br/>3. He’s been full-on, whole-milk, very much in love with Nick for about a year, four months, and seventeen days.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Not that he’s counting.</i></p><p> </p><p>An AU in which Harry, a Breakfast Show Producer, attempts to make Nick see that they should be together. Nick is completely oblivious to Harry's romantic gestures but then he figures it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think I Know Where You Belong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wardo_wedidit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/gifts).



> This was written for wardo_wedidit. Hope you like it! I had a lot of fun writing.
> 
> Endless thanks to people who pushed me through this, beta'd, made suggestions, gave me platitudes when I needed them, and proofread when I was too tired to see straight: V,V,G,E,A and W. Also special thanks to Maya for her help and for setting this whole exchange up. Love you lots.
> 
> Title is from "You Belong With Me" by Taylor Swift.

**HARRY**

When Harry finished his education, he knew it would be a long shot trying to find work. He’d done his A-levels in law, sociology, and business, all of which were promising career paths. But despite excelling in sixth form, he no longer found himself interested in pursuing any of those options at uni.

Instead, he decided to move to London on a crapshoot, and it was all he could do to hope he didn’t end up jobless and stranded. His mum had said there was always a place for him, but with his luck he’d end up without even enough money to buy a train ticket back to Holmes Chapel.

The Breakfast Show kind of came out of nowhere.

He was listening to Nick Grimshaw on late-night radio, as he always did, during his prep shift at the bakery. Nick’s voice was soothing. Easy listening. Would qualify for excellent white noise if Harry weren’t hanging on to every single word.

He was elbows-deep in pretzel dough when Nick said Big Boss Ben had offered him the coveted 6:30-10AM slot and he’d be starting in a month. He of course made a big to-do about leaving, having some of his friends on the last show ever before sacrificing his London party lifestyle for early mornings and living the dream.

Then he mentioned that his production team wouldn’t be following him to his new hours. Harry kneaded the dough so hard he lost his bearings and fell arse-over-kettle on the ground, truly giving a new definition to the word ‘floored’. He supposed Nick wasn’t the only one with a flair for drama, however unintentional Harry’s often was.

The day of his interview, Harry pulled out all the stops: turned the charm meter up to Meeting The Parents, even wore his hair with one of the scarves made of real silk his mum got him for his birthday the year she realized him growing his hair out was a long-term affair. He strolled confidently into the Radio 1 offices, excited to maybe land himself a job—especially since he’d been a fan of the station for ages and loved music—but mostly just hoping he’d bump into Nick. 

What he hadn’t planned for was looking down at the carpet and trying to go over possible interview questions and running straight into Nick’s chest and falling over backwards. (Again.)

And if Matt Fincham saw it and offered him a job on the spot, trying to contain his laughter enough to appear somewhat professional, well. Some things are meant to be.

\---

Some facts:  
1\. Harry’s now been working on the Breakfast team for a little less than two years.  
2\. He’s been halfway in love with Nick since he was fourteen and Nick was still co-hosting with Annie Mac and Harry was realizing that he definitely maybe liked guys in addition to his past girlfriends.  
3\. He’s been full-on, whole-milk, very much in love with Nick for about a year, four months, and seventeen days.

Not that he’s counting.

He tried to be subtle at first, but then Matt made the mistake of checking Tumblr, and found out, via some pictures of an especially domestic grocery shopping trip they’d done the day before, about the fans’ obsession with the idea of Nick-and-Harry as an item. Matt found it hilarious. Funny enough to bring up on air, even. They’d gotten a massive influx of texts screaming about how much they would absolutely _die_ if Nick and Harry were dating.

Harry played it off well, he thinks. Just enough of a laugh to hide the fact that he agreed with every single text, and then, “Please, if anyone comes first in our weird combo Brangelina name it’s definitely me. We should be Stymshaw.” Nick laughed and said he’d massage Harry’s feet over a glass of wine if he agreed that Gryles was superior to Stymshaw, and who was he to say no?

These days they play it up as much as they can for the listeners and probably even more for the webcam viewers. The Nixtape might as well be renamed “Gryles Time Set to Some Music.” 

But it hurts. 

It hurts to know that they’re joking. It hurts that Nick can say he loves Harry in front of almost six million people _every morning_ but never mean it.

But he’s done with faking it. Harry is going to fix this.

Well.

No one can say he’s not going to try.

\---

Harry’s first attempt to tell Nick how he feels happens a bit by accident.

Nick is a whiner. Everybody knows this. The entire _nation_ knows this. The other day he stubbed his toe on his way back from the bathroom and decided to spend an entire link talking about how he “almost _died_ , thank you very much Matt Fincham.”

Harry likes to blend in sometimes, likes to maybe convince anyone who will listen (usually Ian, who is in no way fooled) that he has a calm, cool, collected bone in his body when it comes to Nick. So he tries his best to keep up with everyone else’s teasing when Nick goes on and on about the smallest annoyances--whining which did in fact land him a TV show, so it can’t be said that it was entirely in vain--even though he actually finds it almost painfully endearing. 

 

On the morning in question, Nick spends almost all of his off-air time complaining to Fiona about how’d he worn his favorite jacket out the night before and the guy he slept with must have stolen it in the morning, because it wasn’t draped over the couch, or in his closet, or anywhere on the floor where the rest of his clothes had been thrown. Harry refrains from pointing out that he wouldn’t have stolen Nick’s jacket. Mostly because he would’ve. But if it were up to Harry, he wouldn’t’ve been a one night stand, so at least there would be hope of Nick getting his jacket back.

“So long story short--”

“Nothing about this story has been short. You’ve been on this for nearly four hours.” Matt grumbles. Ian hits him on the shoulder. In a laddy way, sure, but the point still gets across. Harry loves Ian sometimes.

“Go on, Grim,” Fiona says.

“Long story short, _Fiona_ , is that I didn’t have a proper coat to come in to work this morning. And considering I’m already freezing my bollocks off inside the studio. I won’t last a goddamn minute out there in the cold. I’ll die, Fifi. What are the poor listeners of the Radio 1 Breakfast show going to do without me?”

“Nick this is London, not the Arctic.” Harry can feel the way Matt is rolling his eyes from nothing more than his tone. “Last link in thirty.”

“Good to know you’ll be skipping my funeral, Finchy. When I’m dead. Of frostbite. From this tragically cold London morning.”

“Twenty.”

Nick addresses the nation one last time, with a promise to be around tomorrow, provided he has not actually died of frostbite, and signs off with that one track that’s heavy on the trumpets and bass, and always gets stuck in Harry’s head no matter how hard he tries not to listen.

As they’re all packing up to leave after the production meeting, Aimee bursts into the office. “I’ve come to collect my toddler.”

“Who, Nick?”

“Very funny.” She kisses Ian briefly. “Listen, everyone. Before you leave, I was thinking we should all go out for brunch or something. Or at least, I’ll call it brunch as an excuse to drink mimosas, and you’re all free to follow my lead.”

“Well, you know I’m in,” Nick says, kissing her cheek.

“Which means Harry’s coming,” Aimee adds. Nick raises an eyebrow and Harry turns a brilliant shade of red, but she just smiles and turns to Matt and Fiona.

“I’ve got to do some shopping, actually. Wish I could go.” Fiona shrugs, makes a cute, scrunched up face before she pulls her coat on and heads out.

“As for me, I just don’t like hanging out with you.” Matt grins and pats Nick’s shoulder. “See you all tomorrow!”

“Well, I guess it’s just the four of us then, isn’t it?” Aimee has a wicked smile on. Harry doesn’t know what she’s planning, but she’s definitely planning something. She makes a show of linking her elbow with Ian’s and strutting away.

Nick groans out loud. “She’s going to make us sit outside, isn’t she? Is she trying to rub my bad choices in my face?” He rubs his hands up and down his arms, pretending to shiver. 

“Would you like me to change the weather? Maybe grab my time machine so you can go back and put your jacket under lock and key?” Harry’s not entirely sure he’s teasing about being this accommodating. 

“Oh, not you, too. God, I’m just so bloody cold.”

“Here.” Harry reaches over his head and starts to pull his jumper off, his attempts at being charming somewhat tarnished by the neck of it getting caught around his halo of curls. 

Nick’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “If you insist.” He scrambles to put it on, and sighs dramatically when he’s started warming up. And if Harry feels warmer too when Nick offers him an elbow as they strut out of the office, he doesn’t mention it.

The next morning, Harry’s drinking a tea and skimming the pages of the new OK! Magazine, looking for the mention of Nick that the cover promises him. When he finds it, he can’t help squealing even though it’s arse o’clock and he knows better.

“Ian! Ian, look!” Harry yells, leaning over Ian’s desk and pointing to a half page article dedicated to their brunch outing yesterday. He hadn’t even noticed that there were paps, but he supposes that was a combination of trying to parse out Aimee’s weird wing-person plans and trying not to stare at the little bit of color on Nick’s cheeks from the wind.

Ian looks down at the article. There are pictures from behind of Harry and Nick strolling arm in arm and pictures of them laughing at each other at the table. They look handsome and happy together. But best of all, there’s an insert of Harry wearing that jumper at the last Big Weekend, and Nick is proudly wearing it with the sleeves pulled up into paws around his hands at yesterday’s table. 

“Harry, you sound like a proud mum. Are you going to hang this on your fridge?”

Harry’s eyes light up. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

During the show, Harry brings up the article. “Have you seen this, Nick? Looks like... we were on a double date with Ian and Aimee.”

“Wow, and I’m even wearing your jumper here. Does this mean we’re going steady? Good morning Great Britain! It’s almost time for Tina to give you the news, but I’ve got some news of my own. Me and young Harold here are going steady, and OK! Magazine has the surprise exclusive. I’m still waiting for him to pin me, but I think we’re gonna be together forever.” 

Matt’s laugh punctuates Nick’s joke, and Harry laughs along because he’s not sure what else to do.

He hangs it on his fridge anyway.

\---

Harry is still a bit wounded from the “going steady” joke, so Harry waits almost a week before his next try.

“Hey, Fincham?” He kicks his Chelsea boots up on the desk, trying for nonchalant but mostly just begging the fates to let his chair not dramatically fall over while the webcam is on. He prefers to appear suave on wooing days. “You know what would be such a laugh?”

Matt smiles an especially serpentine smile, which Harry knows means he about to get teased. “I’m not entirely sure you know what constitutes as ‘such a laugh’ as you’ve got the humor of a badly-written ice lolly stick pun, but go on.”

“I think it would hilarious if… get this… if Showbot asked a question about me today on the show. More specifically, about what I like best about Nick. I would say it the other way around but we all know the answer would be ‘E, Everything.’ Wouldn’t that be funny? Eh, Finchy?” Harry has on his ‘play it cool’ face, which really looks more like his ‘please Matt please I’m in urgent need of prompt affection’ face. Same thing really. It’s the face that got him the job at Radio 1, so it can’t be all that bad at persuasion.

The laugh that escapes Matt at that point is at least 60% at Harry rather than with him, he’s sure. Harry soldiers on, laughing too, one of the big ones that he feels vibrate in his whole body, a laugh that feels like it’s bursting out of him. It might be too much. Matt is definitely onto him.

“Alright, let’s say I can switch around the script for today and do this for you. What would you suggest for the answers? I’ve never even heard you mention liking him.” Matt looks at him with what are probably supposed to be cherub eyes, but at this point he’s laying it on thick. Harry doesn’t appreciate it.

He’s trying to be romantic here.

“C’mon, Harry. I’ve no clue what you like about Nick, and I’m going to need at least four answers. You’ve got...” Matt looks at the clock, checks how much longer the songs will be playing before they’ve got to get the caller on the line. “Two minutes.”

He looks over to where Nick sits. He’s probably planning what he’s going to say to Fi when he gripes to her about the last model boy, the one who Harry doesn’t even know but he can describe easily anyway: tall, willowy, with a jaw so strong it could earn him a place on Mount Olympus. Disappointed by Grimmy nursing his expensive umbrella drinks and paying attention to his friends all night but blowing him in the bathroom anyway, just to cross it off his bucket list. A boy who rarely comes home and definitely never stays for tea.

Harry knows Nick’s a big boy and he can make his own decisions. He would hate to begrudge him that. But he wouldn’t hate it if Nick would take him home sometime without the implication that Aimee or Gellz or whoever they’ve got in tow is sharing the bed and Harry fits quite nicely on the couch if he scrunches up or if his legs hang off.

But this is why he’s jumping in the deep end.

“I don’t even need two minutes, let’s just do this. Ready?” Harry wrings his hands together and stares resolutely at the floor as he speaks. “I love the way he runs his stupidly long fingers through his quiff and then it goes a bit droopy because he’s practically worked all the product out of it. It looks great up, but even better down, I think. The fact that he brags about how much Nigella he watches and yet his fridge only ever has wine in it. Well, wine and leftover takeaway, and milk for my tea, if I’m lucky. And his laugh. God, his laugh.”

“Oh, this is too good. This is positively precious.” Harry really doesn’t appreciate Matt’s tone, but Ian overhears him read off his list and is at least very fond about rolling his eyes, so he takes comfort in knowing someone’s on his side.

Harry’s cheeks are burning like someone weeing with a UTI, but he soldiers on. He lists off a few more, not sure at what point it stopped being four quiz choices and became a manifesto. “It should drive me crazy, you know—I mean, it does, it really does—but I love his incessant need to have the last word. But, like, he never gets that way when it should actually count? But when we’re arguing about the merits of old-Britney versus new-Britney, it’s like he’s got to have it. And the way he gets in the bath with Pig because she’s a diva who won’t do it if he’s not there.” 

“That’ll work just fine, Styles.” Ian cuts in, clapping him firmly on the back. “Best to keep the rest for your diary. You can doodle ‘Harry Grimshaw’ in all your margins when you’re taking notes during production meeting today.”

Harry is going to have to see a doctor, because he’s pretty sure his face should not be this consistently red and warm to the touch. Maybe he’s got a fever or summat. “Shut up, both of you. Can you just give me the number of today’s caller so I can ring them?”

Matt just laughs and pushes the paper in Harry’s direction. Harry can see the jokes brewing behind his shit-eating smile, but he appreciates the silence that follows.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry sees Nick stand up, brushing the leftover pastry crumbs from his skinny jeans, to switch sides of the radio desk just before the song ends. Harry’s not entirely sure what this one is. Rizzle Kicks, maybe? He comforts himself by pretending Ian hasn’t got an idea what it is either, just knows that it’s heavy on the percussion and a bit too jarring for anyone on a midweek morning.

Fincham sits down just in time for the song to fade out and Nick to introduce the game. “Okay, everyone. Our lovely Showbot is just waking up -- fancy that, sleeping on the job, what an excellent radio host you are Showbot—”

Showbot’s measured voice interrupted his intro speech. “I’m better than you, Grimey.”

Nick ignores her, as usual, and carries on talking. Harry laughs, like he does when Nick does almost anything. “—Which means it’s time for Showquizness! Today we’ve got Annie back, so it’s me versus Annie. Hello, Annie! Y’alright?”

“Morning Grimmy! I’m actually feeling a bit ill. I was up the pub last night with some friends, and I don’t know how you’re up this early every day.”

“I’m actually half superhero, so it’s not even like it’s a chore. I’m just good at everything. It’s a burden more than anything else, being so great, but I bear it.”

“D’you get that from Eileen?” Harry pipes up from his microphone.

“Yeah, actually she’s the full superhero. Couldn’t you tell?” Nick’s smiling, and Harry knows, he knows he should stop, but he just can’t help but want to be the only person that ever gets to put a smile on Nick’s face, and if Harry stops talking the caller might get a chance to say something funny.

“I’ve meant to call Eileen, actually. Love a chat with a mum every so often.”

“We know you do, Harry,” Showbot butts in, probably more tired than anyone listening to the show of their incessant flirting. “Is this your game show or mine?”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I guess we should get on with it if there’s millions of people listening. We’ve got three questions, all about the world of showbusiness. You know the drill. Take it away, Showbot!”

“Thank you. Question One: what does Harry Styles like best about Nick Grimshaw? A. His droopy quiff, B. His brattiness, C. His cable package, D. His hygiene habits.”

“Ooh, that’s a tough one, innit? Annie, what are your thoughts on this one? What does our dear friend Harold like best about me?” Ian rolls his eyes as Harry hangs on to Nick’s every word in a way that’s far more attentive than a producer needs to be. This is saying something, as producers do often need to know what’s going on. 

Granted, they need to know what’s going on beyond trying to use x-ray love vision to see which pants Nick is wearing.

He doesn’t catch on until the tail end of Showbot’s question, and he’s half ready to kill Matt, and half hoping Nick doesn’t actually think this is anything close to what he said. Not that he knows Harry planned this question. Best not to tell him, maybe.

Annie guesses first. “Is there an E for ‘everything’? Can there be? I’m pretty sure you’re made for each other; I can’t possibly pick just one.”

“Don’t I know it. We’re a match made in heaven. I’ve got a droopy quiff, but he’s a blanket hogger, and drinks milk out of the carton, and the like.”

He most certainly does not, but that’s not the point. 

This is not going as planned.

“So you’re going for E, then, Annie? E for ‘Harry loves every lanky bone in my sad little body’? I think I’ll go for D, my hygiene habits. I am quite clean, you know. Squeaky, really. Showbot? What is Harry’s favorite thing about me?”

“The answer is E. Everything.” She’s not wrong.

It doesn’t go as well as Harry hoped, as far as romantic gestures are concerned. But he’s not going to let himself mope. At least not until he gets home.

\---

At this point, Harry is ready to resort to desperate measures. He shows up at Nick’s house with two armfuls of Tesco bags before he even considers the impact such a look will have on Nick’s face.

“Are we… doing something?” Nick asks, already nursing his first mugful of wine, running his fingers through his softened quiff.

“It’s Sunday,” Harry says, because it should be obvious what’s going on. Nick still looks confused, so he explains further. “We’re doing a roast. Well, I am. You are getting out of my kitchen.” Harry doesn’t even bother much with eye contact, instead bustling around trying to find the bag with the ribeye so he can get started.

Nick opens his mouth, in an aborted attempt to make a sarcastic comment about the actual owner of the kitchen, but then takes a sip of wine and raises his eyebrows instead. 

Considering how little Nick uses it, it really ought to be Harry’s. Harry knows that Nick can operate a kettle and locate the drawer full of takeaway menus, which is enough to give him sleep at night, but otherwise this room belongs to Harry.

Harry breathes a little easier once the oven beeps to indicate that it’s preheated and he slides in the beef, trying desperately not to giggle at the innuendo. God, he is such a child. He has about half an hour before the potatoes need to go in, so he starts cutting them up, trying to ignore Nick’s eagle-eyed stare watching his every move. 

Harry shoos him away with a wave of his hand. “If you want to feel useful, you can set the table.”

A couple of hours later, there’s a knock on the door just as Harry’s phone timer sounds off a very loud Marimba. 

“Nick, could you get that? I’ve got to take out the Yorkshire puddings!” He’s dripping with sweat between the warmth he feels from his own glass of wine and the heat of the kitchen around him. The roast has been sitting out for about fifteen minutes wrapped meticulously in foil to let it settle, and the timing couldn’t have worked out more perfectly. 

Harry takes off his oven gloves and wipes his hands on his worn jeans before making his way to the front hall to greet people. He’s eager to see everyone, and based on the raucous noises from closer to the door, it’s loads of people. Or it might just be Aimee. She’s loud enough on her own.

Henry pulls him into a hug as soon as he enters the front hall with Gellz right on his heels, and Harry is reminded why Sunday is his favorite day of the week.

“Alright, alright, let’s speed this up. Can’t cuddle on Harry all day. What’re you drinking?” Nick pretends that he’s more impatient than he really is. Or he’s trying to lay it on thick to mask the fact that he really feels jealous. Harry chooses to think that as he moves on to hug Gellz, pressing his cheek to hers and trying to warm her wind-chilled skin, as he moves to take both of their coats and hang them up proper before they follow Nick to the kitchen.

Loads of others slowly make their way over--Collette, Aimee (with Ian in tow), and Pixie all come through the hall and give Harry a hug or a cheek kiss while they get comfortable and take off their coats.

Harry makes his way into the kitchen to start putting things on serving platters only to find that Nick’s already moved the roast over to the one they’d bought together at Camden Passage for half off because it had a chip just where a big red rose used to be. He’s also set out a mishmash of orphaned bowls and plates that don’t belong to any sort of cohesive dining set.

They feel like home. Harry spoons the mashed swede out of the pot on the stovetop and into a blue paisley bowl.

“This is quite the affair, Styles. When you’re trying to impress you really go all out, don’t you?” Aimee says this quietly, and with the fondest of smiles as she picks up a platter, but he can still feel his cheeks go red at her teasing tone.

“Shut up.” Harry pushes her a bit on the shoulder, but not too hard because she’s holding a tray of his mini Yorkshire puddings from the muffin tin and he worked very hard on those, thank you very much. “It’s just a roast.”

“‘Just a roast.’ And Ian and I are ‘just friends.’”

Harry whines Aimee’s name, thrusting the bowl of swede into her hand so she has to balance the two trays. It’s an attempt to make her focus more on the food than on grilling him. It kind of works. Except for the copious winks and nudges she delivers before walking over to the table. Those he could do without.

Once everything’s assembled, Harry looks up to see where there’s an empty seat when he notices his wine glass, filled with red, placed in front of the seat at the head of the table. He looks across to the other head and finds Nick’s warm eyes looking back at him, his own wine now transferred to a proper glass.

“Think you’re sophisticated, drinking out of a glass instead of a mug?”

“I might, yeah. Do you think you’re sophisticated for drinking red wine?” 

Harry blushes, because Nick’s not wrong, exactly. Harry told Nick that once, a long while ago, and he’s amazed but also not surprised at all that Nick remembers the smallest of details about the people who matter. 

Henry butts in, making their moment feel considerably more like a real family dinner with the clique. “I know I feel far more sophisticated drinking a nicely chilled Sauvignon Blanc myself, but—”

“Oh, aren’t we the king of twats, listen to you! You like boxed wine, it doesn’t matter what fancy French name you’re calling it these days,” Aimee interjects, accompanied by a soft chuckle from Ian and a loud guffaw from Pixie, who is on the floor with Pig and ignoring the food because she’s just come from a roast with her dad. Harry doesn’t take offence. He doesn’t.

“God, Nick, this beef is phenom,” Gellz says quietly, smiling at Nick as she takes another bite.

“And the little Yorkshire puddings, they’re so adorable, I just want to eat them up. Which I will. Because they’re food,” Henry adds, always loving being the loudest one at the table.

Nick blushes, which Harry has rarely seen him do, if ever. “Thanks, but it was all Harry’s doing. Really. Compliments to the chef.”

“It’s true. I’m considering going into catering, actually. Aimee, let me know when you and Ian are ready to tie the knot and I’ll cook for your hen do.”

“Speaking of people who should get married—”

She doesn’t finish her thought because Harry has enough sense to see where she’s going with it. He promptly spills his wine all over his comfy white t-shirt, making a huge red stain on the front and thankfully distracting everyone from what Aimee was going to say. Collette is quick to offer him a napkin, which he accepts, trying to blot out the mark.

“Ah, well, as I always say, don’t cry over spilled wine,” Henry says.

“You’ve never said that,” Pixie replies.

“It’s alright, Harold. You know where my clothes are, and I’m due for a load of washing anyway, so I can bring it to you some day this week.” Nick shoots him a grin from over the lip of his own wine glass, making a shooing motion with his hand that’s very reminiscent of the one Harry directed at Nick earlier in the kitchen.

Being the baby gazelle that Harry often is, he nearly trips over his own legs twice before he reaches Nick’s bedroom door. The likelihood of him tripping increases as soon as he enters the room, because for all the mess Nick never has in his kitchen, his bedroom floor looks like someone danced a waltz in a clothing minefield.

In the midst of fighting his urge to pick a jumper up off the floor, Harry notices the one he’d loaned Nick for brunch weeks ago, lying just to the left of his bed and nowhere near Nick’s elusive laundry hamper. He knows he should pick that one up, put it on, and go back out there to entertain their guests.

But something about Nick holding on to his things—even if it’s just a jumper—makes a burst of affection bloom warm inside Harry’s chest. He’d always liked seeing the way his clothes fit other people, both the different ways they draped over someone else’s body and how they fit seamlessly into someone else’s life. Even though it makes sense to take his own jumper back… it fits here.

Harry picks a worn-in, soft grey one out of Nick’s closet, taking a whiff and hugging it close. It smells strongly of Nick’s washing powder, and Harry wonders if Nick picks one that smells intentionally homey or if Nick’s smell is familiar enough to be the one that feels like home. He thinks about it only long enough to pull the jumper over his head and go back out to the table, where Henry has, unsurprisingly, not stopped talking since he left.

The next morning, when Harry groggily walks into the studio wearing Nick’s jumper, he finds Nick leaning against the desk wearing the jumper he’d left there last night. 

No one says anything, but it still feels like something special.

\---

**NICK**

When Nick wakes up, it tastes like something sweet and tropical died in his mouth. After enough years of partying, he’s managed to avoid the worst parts of a hangover, so his head is fine. But the taste of his preference for strong, fruit-based umbrella drinks is one he can never quite shake in their aftermath.

There is a decidedly Aimee-shaped lump hogging the covers next to him, so when he tries to pull the duvet over his face--because it’s the weekend and he wants to sleep forever and then maybe a day past that--he’s stuck uselessly tugging at grumbling about how he doesn’t know why Ian sticks around. Lovingly, of course.

Now, he’s just stuck looking into the sun as he reaches for his glasses and hopes he doesn’t go even more blind. He needs his eyes for things. Important things. Like his job, and also figuring out who’s worth shagging and who isn’t. His eyes have very good taste. Much better than his tongue, it could be argued at the moment.

He throws the covers off himself a bit more forcefully than necessary, but it’s early, and he’s awake. He deserves a good strop even if no one else is awake to indulge him. Of course Aimee doesn’t budge. She does make a sound somewhere between a honk and a snore, though. Who knew respiratory issues could be cute?

The floor is tragically cold as Nick trudges along for his morning wee, using the crook of his elbow to hide a yawn as he scratches the ample amount of hair below his belly button. He’s never sure why, after all this time on the Breakfast Show, he still bothers to go out to clubs and get pissed when he knows he’s going to wake up feeling like this. Then he stumbles into the living room on his never ending quest for his own bloody bathroom, where Harry Styles is dead asleep and sprawled face first in his old, cracked leather couch.

Nick’s always had a bit of a soft spot for Harry.

He looks sweet when he sleeps despite the open mouth and what looks like no less than fourteen gangly limbs draped everywhere. Harry always looks open and warm so his sleep-sweetness comes as no surprise to Nick. Harry has this way about him where he can focus on someone so entirely that you think he wouldn’t even notice an earthquake. Nick sometimes wonders what natural disasters would fly over his head if Harry were paying him attention. It’s interesting to see him in the self-absorption of sleep.

God, he was so young when he started out, and for some reason he thought Nick was worth idolizing. He hung on to Nick’s every word with such big eyes, and it made him feel important in a way any number of radio listeners couldn’t quite do.

Even years later, after working with him every day, Harry still has that ability to make Nick feel like the biggest celebrity in the room. Even when Emma Watson or some other superstar comes in to interview, he still does it. Nick can’t understand it, but he can’t pretend it doesn’t give him butterflies. 

His need to go to the toilet outweighs his desire to wake Harry up to hear his raspy morning voice. He lets Harry sleep for now, if only because he needs to wake Aimee and have a nice long chat about what to do with his life.

When Nick walks back into his room, much more awake after having a wee and brushing his teeth, he makes a nice, loud affair of moving around the room—opening and slamming the closet doors, rustling what he can of the duvet, and shaking the bed frame. It’s enough to get Aimee to lift her head.

She looks like the undead.

“What's the point of Saturday if you still wake up at ass o’clock in the morning?”

“Aimee, it's nine.”

“That’s what I said.” She’s grumpy as all, but Nick climbs back into bed anyway, nudging her until she sits up and glares at him.

“I have a very serious predicament.”

“Is it Harry?”

Last night, at the club, Nick watched on from a few feet back as Harry waxed poetic to the bartender about Nick never accepting his advances. Considering Harry’s “advances” included holding Nick by the waist and trying to slow dance to Cascada, followed by pressing a sloppy kiss to Nick’s left cheek, Nick was a little confused.

He’s still confused, and his brow furrows at Aimee’s question. Thinking about it now, though, perhaps Harry’s feelings were obvious to everyone else and Nick was the only one still in the dark about it.

Which is so not fair, nor is it best friend protocol to hide that sort of information.

Then again, after watching Harry sip five or six cosmopolitans through a bendy straw—going at the straw tongue first and possibly trying to tie it into a knot like one does with a cherry stem—Nick was starting to question his own feelings about all of it.

“It’s that obvious?”

“Listen.” Aimee put an impeccably manicured hand on Nick’s slouched shoulder. “I know the whole love bit is a really foreign concept to you, but it’s okay to let yourself want something more than models who steal your jackets.”

“It’s not like it’s something I knew I wanted.” 

Aimee shoots him a look, which. Fair. “Okay, but it’s not like he’s waited around for me? He goes out and has plenty of sex with people who aren’t me. And then we flirt on radio. That’s just how we are. Right?”

“Are you expecting him to wait around for you? Because you’re not exactly waiting around for him either, Nick.”

“I’m not…expecting anything! We’re friends.”

Nick keeps his friends as close as he can. He’s cultivated quite the family out of the friends he’s acquired over the years, and he’s proud of the people he loves. 

There’s nothing wrong with the sudden desperation he feels to maintain that.

And… Nick never stays friends with the people he fucks. They aren’t meant to wear his clothes. He doesn’t invite them to dinners with the clique. They don’t stick around. Well, sometimes for breakfast, and maybe a tea. But they never stay in the way he wants to keep Harry.

“It’s okay, you know. When I said that before, I meant it.” Aimee leans her head on Nick’s shoulder where her hand was. He’s trying not to crack. It’s a lot of pressure to have someone love him so much that they see right through him. “Harry’s not like everyone else.”

“I know. But it’s hard,” Nick whines. No heart-to-heart is complete without a proper Nick whine. He feels compelled to deliver even if there’s truth behind his words.

“What’s hard is watching you pine,” Aimee says. “Just go out there and ask him what he wants you to cook for dinner. You’ve done food together plenty of times before. It’s about damn time.”

\---

Nick knows that thinking he can do anything he wants to do and do it well gets him into trouble more often than not, but he’s always hoping that one of these times he’ll catch a break.

But of course, the world is conspiring against him. Nick told Harry that he’d make whatever Harry wanted for tea, brimming with confidence after his morning chat with Aimee, and it lands him face down on the counter with his cheek in a small pool of seasoned olive oil and watching pine nuts burn in a frying pan on the stove.

Nick’s not the type to give up, but.

He started cooking before X Factor, and now he can hear the television’s low buzz of the Xtra hosts asking that band in it how they felt about tonight’s performance. He’s so frazzled after two hours of cooking, and he just wants to sit on the couch next to Harry and share some wine and a takeaway. Maybe a cheeky hand inching up his thigh. At least then he won’t have to say something and risk embarrassment.

Nick never said he was brave.

He takes the not-quite-blackened pine nuts out of the pan and stirs them into his egg and feta mixture, hoping they won’t just turn into scrambled eggs from the heat. The recipe says to use the same pan for wilting the spinach, so he needs to just suck it up and use the bad nuts so he can continue with the recipe. Even if everything goes well from here on out, it’s at least twenty-five more minutes of cooking time.

“Are you sure you don't wanna go out?” Harry asks as he appears in the doorway from the other room. He tilts his head and Nick turns around before he can continue doing cute things without warning Nick first. 

Nick is too busy watching the spinach to answer him, because if one part of a spinach and feta phyllo pie needs to work for the meal to be successful it’s the greens. Also, his stomach hurts and he’s afraid to look Harry in the eyes. The spinach shrinks and curls in on itself, and Nick can’t help but sympathise as he adds the other half of the leaves from the produce bag.

“No, really. We could go out,” he says with a smirk. Nick can hear it in his voice.

He throws down the wooden spoon he’s been stirring the spinach with. “Can you let me try to woo you in peace, Harry?"

The world stops spinning beneath him.

Nick is definitely having a panic attack. He’s definitely going to die alone, and he’s going to have all his clothes stolen by one night stands until he’s left lying naked on the floor next to a mug of spilled tea mixed with tears, lamenting this day. The day that Harry Styles Officially Realized That Nick Grimshaw Was Off His Rocker. He’s beginning to feel extremely lightheaded, and last time he had his mum look this up on WebMD she said he was being overdramatic and most certainly not going to die. And he’s sure he knows how to breathe, so why isn’t he doing it?

Harry looks around awkwardly. “If you're joking, it's not funny.”

This is exactly what Nick didn’t want to happen. He was meant to make a gorgeous, thirty minute phyllo pie, and they were going to watch the X Factor together and be proper domestic and then he was going to ease Harry into the idea of possibly maybe being more than friends. The idea that Harry thinks he’s joking, that he’s just doing this so he can to tell Fincham tomorrow--who will laugh so hard he cries--is awful.

Nick doesn’t want to muck it up any further, so he gets a bit mopey with the layers of phyllo dough on the greaseproof paper, moving it around as if he’s doing Very Important Kitchen Things. He mumbles, “‘S not a joke, you twat."

Harry scrunches up his nose. Nick’s positive he’s ruined everything for the rest of forever, when Harry says, “Something smells like smoke.”

“Fuck!” Nick scrambles for the wooden spoon, scraping the spinach out of the pan and into the bowl with all the other ingredients and stirring it all together. It’s not nearly as burned as it could be, nor is it as bad as the pine nuts. It’s just a bit more wilted than it ought to be. Nick never knew he related so much to spinach.

“It’s not?”

Nick heaves a massive sigh, crossing the room to where Harry is standing. The stove top is still on, the small blue flame ignited underneath a pan with nothing in it, but Nick can’t be bothered to do anything with his hands besides put them on either side of Harry’s face.

Kissing Harry doesn’t feel anything like one of his one night stands. He’s pressing their lips together, and it’s familiar, like the warmth he feels inside when Harry claps a hand over his mouth when he laughs like he's surprised at his own mirth. Nick’s tongue slides along Harry’s bottom lip, just to let himself get a taste of the wine he’s yet to have, and Harry opens his mouth meeting Nick in the middle with a subtle taste of peppermint underneath the Pinot.

They kiss for a while, and it one hundred percent smells like smoke in the room around them, but Nick couldn’t care less. He can feel Harry’s closed mouth curl up into a smile, and then Nick is pulling away because Harry’s smile shows no sign of stopping, and kissing teeth seems decidedly unsexy. 

“Here,” Harry says, trying and failing to tamp down his wide smile. “Why don’t you let me take over from here? I’d like to eat before we have to be in to work on Monday.”

\---

“What about you, Nick? When was the last time you tried to woo someone?” Harry asks, with a smug grin that Nick very much does not appreciate. The link music is playing quietly in the background, and Ian’s just told some version of how he tried so many times to woo Aimee until finally she just took over. Apparently it was taking too long. Nick laughs, because that sounds like her.

“I try and cook for someone if I’m trying to woo them. And once when I was trying to woo someone I said, ‘What do you want for your tea? I’ll make you whatever you want.’ And they were like, ‘Can I have a spinach and feta phyllo pie?’” He chuckles softly, remembering how puffed up in the chest he was, how sure that he’d be able to wow Harry with an unforgettable pastry. A pastry for the ages. “I was like, ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll have to learn how to make that.’ It took us about four hours, all told. Didn’t start eating until Wossy came on.”

“Did it work? We’re all on the edges of our seats now. You can’t just leave us hanging!” Fiona cries, leaning over the desk and making a big scene out of it.

Nick smiles at his producers, eyes crinkling as they meet Harry’s gaze. “I think so, yeah.”


End file.
